On the Shore of Broken Dreams
by Archaeologist
Summary: When Arthur dies at Camlann, Merlin would do anything to have him back again, even if it means raising him from the dead.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

First off - a big thank you to my amazing artist **ceearrchua** who inspired the story. You can find her work on tumblr under ceearrchua. tumblr dotcom / Merlin Reverse BB (I've added spaces so will show it on ff.n)

1) Many thanks to an amazing beta - **gwylliondream** who gave me lots of great advice and didn't complain about all the comma errors!  
2) The Merlin of Arthurian legend had him going crazy and living in the forest at one point. I thought I'd explore that. Many thanks to **jelazakazone** for helping me out with the plot.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; They and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No money has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Outside, the forest was full of sound.

_Merlin…._

It wasn't real, though. He knew it couldn't be real.

It was only winter's wood, a slow creak of branches and the rustle of oak leaves, movement in the wind. It wasn't speaking his name. It wasn't.

_Merlin…._

But he moved further back into the cave, just in case - and waited for the madness to pass.

As he stood there, shivering, he could see whispers skittering across the entrance, crawling up the rock wall, dangling over his head and then slithering down to coil around his throat; they were choking, cloying and fierce, ever tightening. Then from behind him, the groans started, twisted and desolate, clawing at him, icy-fingered demons that left bruises behind, purple and yellow and vomit-green.

Worse still were the desperate cries for help that seemed to come from all directions and each time there was the flood of iron as he bit into his mouth, hoping the pain would make them stop, make it stop.

_Merlin…._

In some small part of what was left of him, Merlin knew that nothing was there. The bruises were of his own making, punishment for everything he'd done. And whatever he thought closed his throat, the simple truth was that it was his hand and nothing else that tightened across his neck.

He'd gone mad and he knew it. It didn't help that the crystals showed him again and again visions of his failures, a thousand turning points that could have brought a new golden age to Camelot.

Instead, fear had led him further and further into the abyss. To this moment. Failure, failure and hopeless regret. Sliding down, head in his hands, he just wanted it to stop. But he knew he'd have to ride it out, as he had so many times before.

Moments of clarity and madness, they pulled apart what life he could have had and kept him imprisoned. A captive of his own making.

So alone, so alone.

* * *

He'd run out of tears by the time his mind settled. In the distance, he could hear the movement of branches, but it was just the wind and nothing more, just the ordinary noise of autumn leaves and wood. No grief-stricken accusations, no shrill cry for blood, no demands for retribution. No beloved king's voice calling his name.

Even the crystals were silent.

He dreaded it more than the madness. Clarity was its own poison, more insidious since he couldn't deny what had happened, only accept the burden.

In the months since Arthur's death, he remembered few moments like this. When he'd stumbled into the cave that first horrible night, seeking some kind of penance or a way to bring Arthur back, he'd begged for guidance among the crystals. But there were only the images of what had happened, of Mordred's blade sliding into Arthur, wet blood spilling out. His king collapsing, of Merlin revealing his magic and the fear in Arthur's eyes. The race to reach Avalon before it was too late.

And it was too late. Although the dragon promised him that Arthur would return some day, it didn't matter. He tried over and over to bring Arthur back. Pouring everything he had of magic into the wound, desperately hoping to heal him, his throat growing hoarse with effort, he ignored all else.

But it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. And when it was clear that Arthur was dead, that Merlin had failed, he was just numb.

He'd fled after that.

So sure there was still a way to reverse the horror of it, to bring Arthur back from the abyss, he set out, looking for the druids and the Cup of Life they held - surely he could have traded Arthur's life for his own. But it was to no avail. They had vanished into the forests and endless searching yielded no trace of them. Even the dragons had disappeared.

When he realized that there was nothing more he could do, that he could not right the wrongs he had done, he stopped eating, stopped drinking. So many times he'd vowed to die at Arthur's side, and in some small way if he could cease to exist, it would have been a fitting end.

If only it _had_ ended.

In the weeks that followed, he'd found out why the druids called him Emrys. It did indeed mean something after all - immortality, the ultimate punishment for what he'd done.

No wonder he'd gone mad with it.

Now, it didn't matter. He ate or not; he sang or shrieked or not; he begged for release or not. It didn't matter.

He was utterly alone.

But also he knew he couldn't carry on as he had, couldn't be so self-indulgent as to let mere madness stand in his way. He had obligations to Arthur's legacy. Something must have remained of Camelot; perhaps Gwen still ruled there, surrounded by knights clad in blood-red wool.

He wasn't sure they would want a liar, a sorcerer crazed with regret, someone so powerless that he couldn't even protect their rightful king, not after Camlann. But he owed it to Arthur to try.

* * *

Even that was a failure.

By the time he'd got to Camelot, he knew it was already too late. The citadel stood scarred and silent and the surrounding town all but deserted.

There was a scatter of guards on the battlements, wearing Lot's colours. Apparently the warlord had taken advantage of the chaos, waiting until Morgana's forces failed and Camelot's knights were too weak to fight off yet another predator.

There was no sign of Gwen but he didn't dare ask anyone.

Careful to avoid being spotted, he made his way up to Gaius's rooms but his mentor wasn't there. Inside, nothing remained. The furniture was gone, all of Gaius's bottles and potions as well. The herbs and rare plants had been ground into dust on the floor and rubbish scattered about. A few books, pages torn, were tossed into corners, but everything else had vanished.

Choking back the pain - knowing that Gaius would not have left willingly, he climbed the stairs to his own room.

More trash and broken glass, the smell of stale urine in the air, but it was empty.

Too much, it was almost too much. The madness began to gather in, voices in his head full of accusation, but he forced it back. There would be time enough later for recriminations.

Kneeling down, he pulled up the loose board and shoved his hand into the space where his treasures had been hidden. At least there, he'd had some luck. His magic book and Ygraine's sigil that Arthur had given him so long ago and the Sidhe's staff were all there.

Shoving the smaller things into his bag, he stood up and gave a final glance around the room. In the far corner, there was another half-torn book, discarded, but Merlin couldn't bear to leave it to Lot's vultures. He scooped it up, not even looking at the cover, and put it into his satchel.

There was a noise just outside the door and Merlin stilled, listening intently as footsteps quieted. He wasn't sure if anyone had noticed him coming in, but he had to be careful. He didn't think Lot would be kind if he knew Merlin were there.

Waiting a few moments, he looked out through the door cracks, hoping to see if it was clear enough for him to leave. The room beyond looked empty and he began to relax.

And then there was an eye staring back at him.

Startled, he didn't even think, just reacted. Lightning quick, pulling the door open, he yanked the girl inside and shut it again.

Luckily, it wasn't one of Lot's ilk. Instead, it was a chambermaid that he'd been friends with, a lifetime ago.

She stumbled back, terror in her eyes, one hand raised as if to fight him off, the other still trapped in his grip. "Let me go! Let me…."

As her voice grew louder, struggling hard, Merlin pulled her close, wrapped one hand over her mouth. He said, "Quiet, Drysi, please." That just seemed to make her more frantic. But he didn't let go, he just waited until she stopped screaming and stood there breathing hard against his palm. "I won't hurt you."

At that, she nodded once. Merlin said, "I'm going to take my hand away and let you go. Will you promise to stay quiet? At least until you've heard me out?"

A little shudder and she nodded a second time.

Taking a deep breath while watching for any sign that she'd start screaming again, he released her and stepped back. "I won't hurt you."

Drysi didn't look like she believed him; she kept glancing at the door and back at him as if trying to figure out a way to escape. But Merlin was blocking her and she must have known it.

"I need to know what happened here. Where's Gaius? Where's Gwen? Are there any knights still fighting against Lot?" When she didn't say anything, just stood there trembling, he said gently, "I promise I won't hurt you."

That seemed to unlock something in her. "Everything you say is a lie."

It was like a stab to the gut and yet the worst part was that Merlin couldn't disagree with her. Everything he'd done in Camelot had been based on lies and it led to disaster.

"Is that what you sorcerers do? Lie and cheat and play with people's lives? Destroy everything that is good and right?" She must have seen something in his face because she grew bolder. "You let our king die. You're a sorcerer with enough power to pull lightning from the sky and still you let him die. And my Ralf died with him."

He'd thought that he couldn't feel more pain, that his world was already torn to shreds and each part bleeding agony and yet her words only made things worse. He'd gone to their wedding, just six months ago and wished them good fortune, drank to their health and future happiness. They'd both laughed and babbled to him about their cottage and how they wanted to fill it with children and now her husband was dead. All those dreams turned to ash.

Even through her tears, she looked at him with absolute loathing. "So don't make promises you have no intention of keeping. If you had just used your powers for good, none of this would have happened and Ralf would still be alive and the king, too."

"I'm sorry about Ralf. I didn't know."

Her face wet with grief, her eyes hardened as she stared at him. "Did you think it entertaining? To lie so well, fool everyone into thinking you're this sweet clumsy boy when all you really are… is evil?"

He wanted to tell her how truly sorry he was, how much he wanted to change the past and make it right somehow, but he knew it wouldn't be enough, never enough.

He could only leave and hope to fix what he could, perhaps regather Camelot's forces and take back the citadel, leave something of Arthur's legacy to those who deserved better than this. But for that, he needed information.

"Drysi, where's Gaius?"

She laughed, an ugly sound, watching him closely as if knowing the news would tear him to pieces. "Dead. Couldn't take the shame of knowing what you were."

Guilt and pain struck so deep it was a wonder he could see. The shadows were clawing at him, madness whispering of how he'd left Gaius behind, thinking that he'd be safe. He remembered how the old man had smiled, knowing that Merlin was trying to protect him and yet such an indulgent look, both fond and worried and it was the last time he'd seen him.

If Merlin had returned right after Arthur died, he knew he could have shielded Gaius at least. Instead, the futile journey to find a way to bring Arthur back only left his mentor vulnerable and Gaius died because of it.

Merlin's choices doomed them all.

She waved one hand toward the window, watching his face as it crumpled at the news. Drysi said flatly, "He's buried in the woods along with so many others who died trying to defend Camelot. My Ralf, the knights, all gone."

It took a moment for Merlin to think. Behind him, the walls were crawling with regret; shadows and blurred faces clogging the air and he couldn't, he couldn't even think and yet he had to, for Arthur's sake.

"And Gwen? The queen?"

Another laugh, savage and triumphant. "Out of your reach. She's alive, but I won't tell you where. She deserves some peace after what happened." Drysi stepped forward, eyes glittering with hate. "And don't even think about trying to find her. She'd soon as slit your throat after what you'd done."

Of course she would. Why would Gwen believe him? His choices had killed Arthur. And yet some small part of him protested that at least Drysi should know the truth. "I tried to save him. I tried so hard."

"Not what I heard." Contemptuous, her face as filled with loathing as ever he'd seen, she said, "It doesn't matter. I don't believe you. I will never believe you again."

He couldn't stop, even knowing that the promise was broken before he said it, even knowing that he was lying to himself as much as her. "I will try to right this. Drysi, I will try to make it better."

She shook her head. "Unless you can bring them back from the dead, don't waste your time, sorcerer. It's already too late."

* * *

He let her go, of course. How could he not - when all she'd done was tell him the truth?

Still, he lingered, waiting for the warning bell to sound, waiting for her to exact revenge for what he'd done, waiting for her to turn him over to Lot's men. In a way, he wanted punishment. He'd failed them and yet he lived and lived and lived and everyone else had suffered for it.

He didn't remember much after that. The madness, much as he tried to avoid it, came back with a vengeance. Faces accusing him, a pile of red cloth, the bright blood colour of Pendragon's knights, caught under his hand. Whispers and cries of 'Merlin, Merlin' hiding in dark corners. Something heavy shoved into him. He pushed it away and it stopped moving. Everywhere was the dull sheen of unpolished armour and the smell of dank refuse and the sound of rocks falling.

When he woke, he was back in his cave. His clothes, torn and bloody, were almost rags, but as he looked around, he could see the Sidhe's staff and his bag and beyond that, a largish bundle of red wool bound up with twine.

For a moment, he thought it might be someone sleeping there, all huddled into the cloth for warmth - he'd have welcomed the company no matter who it was - but it was too small by half.

Struggling to move, his body aching as if he'd been beaten, he walked, well mostly crawled, over to where the bundle lay. Unknotting the twine took so much effort that he almost gave up, but finally it came apart.

It was a knight's cloak, Camelot's with its gold-threaded emblem fouled, and the hem shredded. One long tear near the front was encrusted with dried blood but it was intact enough to use. It smelt horribly; someone had pissed on it, but Merlin could clean that easily enough. A rare find and welcome for the nearing winter.

But inside the bundle was something else, something he'd almost forgotten in the days since Arthur's death. It was the king's armour, his third best set. Merlin remembered how they'd fought over him having to clean it; Arthur insisted that all the dents be repaired and set to gleaming and Merlin had refused. After all, with two other sets, what need did Arthur have for a third, especially when cleaning it would only lead to it getting rusty again before he'd even use it? But in the end, he'd promised to do it once they returned from Camlann and Arthur laughed, knowing that Merlin was lying through his teeth. It had been a good day, that day. The last of them.

And there it was, a link to a past that all but destroyed him.

He didn't even know how it had got there, although in his insanity, he must have scoured the armoury for it, and the cloak, too. An effort that only made him hurt more to look at it.

With a sweep of his hand and as much magic as he could summon, he threw the armour across the cave, listening with satisfaction as it smashed, clanking, into the darkness beyond. Out of sight, out of mind.

Merlin almost sent the cloak after it, but he needed warmth for the coming winter and it was too valuable to discard.

In the end, he bowed to necessity. He cleaned it, repaired what he could. He thought to unpick the gold thread on the crest and sell it; it would bring in enough money for a tunic and perhaps a sharper axe, but in the end, he couldn't. He couldn't. Instead, he turned the cloak inside out and ignored the symbol of Camelot ever-present against his heart.

* * *

The madness pulled him down again and when he came out of it, he knew he had to do something. It was no life to live, as live he must. He'd have to cure himself somehow. He thought there might be some inkling of a spell or some words of wisdom that Gaius might have scrawled into his magic book and that hope led to scrambling into his bag, untouched since his return from Camelot.

But as he upended the satchel, more than just his book and Arthur's sigil tumbled out. The other book, the one he'd almost forgotten he'd taken from Camelot, lay there, the pages fluttering, daring him to read.

No, no, no.

It was _The Art of Necromancy_.

Scrambling back, he stared down at it in shock. It was of dark magic, a thing forbidden under any circumstances. The raising of the dead had dire consequences and the manipulation of their mind a horror that only sorcerers bent on destruction would enjoy.

As he watched, the pages seemed to move, taunting him, the words written there blurring into Arthur's face.

No.

Even he wasn't so far gone that he'd bring Arthur back, not like that.

As he raised his hand, ready to send the book into oblivion, he hesitated.

Beside him, behind him, all around, the crystals were singing. Arthur was caught in their depths, looking solemn and empty, a smile that didn't reach his eyes as he stared back at Merlin. A thousand facets reflecting the visions and everywhere Merlin looked, that smile.

It was like nothing he'd seen before. Each time the crystals had shown him the past, painful as it was, it had been something Merlin remembered. But this felt odd; Arthur never gazed at him like that, even the final moments when he knew at last about his magic.

It had to be false - or a new form of madness to torment him.

And yet he couldn't bear for it to stop. That beloved face made him realize just how alone he was. The smile, counterfeit or otherwise, was still Arthur's and he missed him, so very much.

With his throat clogging with tears, he turned away and stumbled out into the forest. The book remained behind.

* * *

There was anger in the wind. The rattling of branches and the leaves hissing turmoil, a perfect reflection of how Merlin's heart was breaking. He'd thought it was destroyed ages ago and yet it kept shattering all over again.

He couldn't do it. It was dark magic and it wouldn't be Arthur anyway. Just as Lancelot had fooled them for so long with his warm smiles and noble demeanour, any attempt to use necromancy would not bring Arthur back. Lancelot under Morgana's thrall, a puppet to bring down the kingdom and it had been all a lie, a terrible lie.

But Lance looked the same and acted the same when he returned. Merlin remembered how difficult it had been to see the differences and only at the end, in those final moments after he'd died a second time, did the real Lancelot come through. He remembered, too, thinking that if he'd just talked to Lance before he'd killed himself, things might have turned out differently.

No, he didn't like that his mind was playing tricks again, that he was thinking perhaps he _could_ bring back Arthur and this time make things right - just as Lance had been once Merlin used his magic.

No, it couldn't be. It couldn't. It would only end badly.

He had to finish this now, before he gave in to his loneliness and did something unforgivable. Pushing himself up, he walked back into the cave, intent on destroying the book.

The crystals were waiting for him: more scenes of Arthur cloaked in red, of smiles and Merlin laughing, of magic growing as Ygraine's sigil is thrown into the Pool of Nemhain, of a man rising up out of the water, dark blond and powerful-looking and Merlin walking toward him.

Chants and delight and a heart lifted when Arthur looked at him with those guileless blue eyes.

Merlin was well and truly lost.

* * *

He tried to fight it, though, oh how hard he tried. He knew dealing with the dead would only bring heartbreak and several times he'd found himself holding the necromancy book, shaking with a desperate longing to find courage enough to destroy it.

But it was already too late. He'd known he was a coward when he hadn't told Arthur the truth about his magic years ago. He'd never been afraid for his own life, but to be turned away, rejected, was more than he could bear.

That choice had brought them all ruin and utter destruction.

This time, though, he knew better. He knew what he'd have to do.

Yes, he'd bring Arthur back but not as the king… just a man. Keep him close, teach him how to live simply and perhaps once he was sure that this Arthur was harmless, he'd find Gwen, return him to his rightful place. Perhaps then, the promises the Great Dragon made all those years ago would come true, a golden age where Albion was united and magic accepted.

He wanted to believe that with all his heart. It gave him purpose again. It gave him hope again. If ignoring the small voice in the back of his mind clamouring for the book's destruction was the price, then so be it.

Yet it wasn't as easy as all that. He needed to prepare in mundane ways and magical ones. He knew that Arthur would not be happy in the cave. It wasn't the most comfortable place to live in and Merlin had only stayed because, if truth be told, he felt he didn't deserve anything more.

Then there was clothing and food. Nothing he owned would fit Arthur and even those were mostly rags. Food was hit or miss; he'd learned to eat whatever he could scrounge and even that was pitifully meagre. He'd have to find more reliable resources. But at least it gave him something to focus on.

He was trying to ignore the rest of it. Preparing to bring someone back from the dead left him feeling soiled, as if he'd sullied a sacred trust. It didn't help that the rituals were fraught with potential disaster. A single word spoken wrongly could have dire consequences. He'd had nightmares about it: a man ravaging the countryside, the wails of women calling for their loved ones, pet dogs torn apart. He kept thinking about Morgana and Lancelot and how, in the end, he'd not been able to save either of them.

But with each passing day, he grew more eager to see Arthur again, even if it was not the man he'd once known. The loneliness gnawed at him, left him empty and wanting and he looked forward to a smile, a voice, anything to keep away the demons.

Finally, a hut found and prepared, a store of food, a few stolen clothes and Merlin was ready. For good or ill, Merlin was ready.


	2. Chapter 2

Saturated with power, Ygraine's sigil seemed to be vibrating in his hand.

It was really the only thing Arthur had ever given him that had value, something the king clearly prized. All that history and the love he'd had for his mother imbued into a single piece of metal and yet he'd given it to Merlin.

At the time, Merlin assumed that once the Dorocha were defeated and Camelot saved, Arthur would have demanded its return. After all, he was just a servant and not important enough to keep a queen's sigil.

But Arthur never asked for it back.

Warmed by the gesture, in the months and years that followed, Merlin treasured it. A solid symbol of Arthur's regard and all the more precious since Arthur fell at Camlann.

It was also the talisman that would bring about Arthur's return.

He'd pressed enchantment after enchantment into the metal. The white magic, nature's magic, was thought to counteract the darkness that would inevitably rise from bringing back the dead. Of course, the book on necromancy was frustratingly unhelpful, pointing out the obvious pitfalls without any specific ways to avoid them. He'd ended up going with his instincts. Relying on a few obscure hints in his magic book, he sent love and longing into the medallion and hoped it would be enough.

Now, standing along the bank of the Pool of Nemhain, the sigil pressed hard against his palm, he looked out onto the unruffled waters. Around him, hills rose black and white, clouds capping the peaks. The snows had come early and it was bitterly cold but no ice formed on the lake and the air was still. No birds sang, no sound of deer running through the wood; not even the trees were moving.

The silence unnerved him but there was no time for recriminations. He'd prepared as best he could and standing there, unclothed, unadorned except for the scars he'd bought with blood and loss, shivering in the cold, he raised his arm, holding the sigil high.

As he began to chant, he flung the last remnant of Arthur's esteem into the water. "_Mid __þes __sceatte, ic __ðu áben, Arthur Pendragon. Cume fram begeondan __wítescræfe. Aríse und eftáríse, min cyning."_

Repeated it again and again. Three times for hope, three times for longing, three times for love.

Not knowing what to expect, he stepped back, watching as the water begin to bubble, rings of churning white that spread out and out until it seemed the whole lake was writhing.

From the depths, he could see movement, the shape of an arm, the roundness of a beloved head. There was a dark shadow starting to rise up out of the water, the shape and size of a man, powerful and tall.

After one breathless moment, at last Merlin could see him clearly.

It was Arthur.

He didn't look any different, the same well-honed body, the same piercing blue eyes, blond hair streaming wet as he walked slowly toward Merlin. It was as if Camlann never happened. Even the scars were gone.

It was Arthur and Merlin had brought him back from the dead. Here, walking toward him was a second chance to make things right and he'd be damned if he'd let it pass.

Heedless of the cold, Merlin let out a sob and ran into the lake.

Arthur never wavered, pushing through the water with indomitable will as if nothing mattered to him but reaching Merlin. When he was close enough to touch, close enough that Merlin could see how the cold had affected him - shaking limbs and a mouth shaded in blue, Arthur stopped. Bowing his head, he said, "My lord, I am yours to command."

Merlin was taken aback. Arthur would never say such a thing. But now was not the time to question him. It was clear he needed to warm up, and quickly.

Grabbing his hand, he pulled Arthur with him toward the shore, babbling about getting him into some dry clothes and wouldn't a fire be nice and how he was so glad to see him. He came willingly, silent and almost too compliant as if he were a child or a cowed slave.

It was disturbing to say the least. And Merlin only grew more uneasy when he started a fire with magic and Arthur didn't even bat an eye.

He towelled him off, wrestled him into breeches and a soft shirt and boots, slung the red cape over his shoulders and settled him by the fire. Merlin dressed quickly after that, shivering as he sat down next to Arthur.

In the days before Camlann, Arthur would have already begun ordering him around, but instead he just sat there, staring into the firelight.

Fighting off his deep worry at this new unknown, Merlin said softly, "Arthur, are you alright?"

He looked up, distant blue eyes staring at him. "My lord?"

Any other time it would have been funny. After all, Arthur loved to mock him, would come up with the most ridiculous accusations of incompetence and at times would even throw back Merlin's own inventive insults when he couldn't think of his own. This, however, was not ridicule, but genuine confusion. "Arthur, I'm not… I'm Merlin."

"Of course." Arthur bowed his head. "My apologies, my lord Merlin."

"No, just Merlin. I'm not a lord. Never have been. Never will be." He tried to send Arthur a smile, hoping to get one in return, but he just nodded and turned back toward the firelight. Holding back a sigh, eager for conversation and above all wanting to hear Arthur's voice again, Merlin said, "Are you happy to be back? I know I didn't ask you if you wanted to return but I thought…."

"Return from where?"

Perhaps that was a trap best avoided. Merlin wasn't sure how Arthur would react to the knowledge that he'd been brought back from the dead. He wasn't sure that he'd ever be able to explain it properly. Besides, Merlin didn't really want to see blame in Arthur's eyes; he could do that well enough all on his own.

"That's a long story." Arthur didn't even question the evasion, just nodded and sat there, accepting the reply. There was another long pause but Merlin had had enough of silence. "Do you remember anything?"

At last there was emotion in Arthur's voice, a kind of poisonous growl. "A sword flashing. Pain. Fear. Anger. Betrayal." When he saw Merlin staring at him with concern, he said flatly, decisively, "I've been trained to kill since birth."

That was such an odd thing to say and yet he had told Merlin that often enough over the years. Perhaps the true Arthur was coming back. After all, when Lance died, Merlin was able to reach him if only for a little while. He was sure he'd have more success with Arthur. "Do you remember anything else?"

"You. You crying." Then he looked away, into the fire. "Darkness. Blood, so much blood. Bodies everywhere, enemies that I'd killed. Enemies who deserved to die."

This from a man who always tried to do the right thing, who would rather bargain for peace than make war, who would give others chance after chance to make amends. But now he sounded more like Uther than the just and fair king Merlin followed. "We were at war, but sometimes it's better to try to make peace with them first."

"They were enemies." Arthur sounded cold as mountain snow, but then his face changed back into the impassive mask he'd worn when he rose from the lake. "I don't remember anything else."

It was looking more and more like Merlin had a challenge on his hands. He didn't know how much of Arthur was really in there, hiding just under the surface. It might be a rough winter, but at least now he had the chance to try to make amends, a chance to make things right again.

Putting on a smile, trying to look serene when he felt anything but, he said, "Arthur, I'm sure you will remember happier things soon enough. In the meantime, we'll go home and when you feel better, I'll teach you a few things about gathering herbs and farming. You said you always wanted to be a farmer." He held out his hand, waited until Arthur reached out and then pulled him to his feet. "Gwen thought it funny at the time."

"Who is Gwen?"

Putting the fire out with a single word, Merlin turned and tugging Arthur along, started toward their new home. It would appear that there was much to do in the coming months. It was not just teaching him about life and how to be a king again but reintroducing him to all those who survived. "She was someone you knew before. Maybe when you are better, I'll take you to meet her. She's very nice."

Arthur's voice was back to that flat, distant tone. "She's not an enemy."

"No, not an enemy." But somehow Merlin didn't think Arthur believed him.

* * *

Merlin had known of the charcoal-maker's hut for a while. He'd stumbled across it with Lance and later took Arthur there to meet 'Dragoon'. The last time he'd been there, there was no one living in it, the owner dead. With Agravaine chasing them, they couldn't stay long anyway and Merlin merely handed over the dead man's clothes for Arthur's use.

Arthur looked like a turnip-head in them; the memory still made him smile even now.

Absurdly, the things they had to leave behind were still there: rusty chainmail and a woollen cloak, mostly eaten by mice. It was a simple enough task to repair them. A little magic and they were almost as good as new. And with the set of armour he'd brought back in his last foray into Camelot, Arthur could be kitted out properly when the time came.

As for the cabin, it was small but adequate for their needs. More importantly, although it was fairly close to Camelot, it was deep enough in the forest to be unnoticed by most. And luckily for them, the garden in back, unkempt and in serious need of weeding come spring, was rich with herbs and medicinal plants. Even in winter, there were still some that Merlin could use to make tinctures or sell if need be.

Arthur didn't seem to care about any of it. All through their trek back, Merlin kept up a steady stream of information, peppering it with insults, hoping to spark some recognition. They'd always done that, traded barbs and jokes, sometimes descending into the ridiculous to make the other smile. But now there was no returned grin and certainly no jokes, absurd or otherwise.

It was enough to exhaust Merlin.

When they finally arrived, Merlin stumbled through the door, lighting the candles with a gesture, and then tugged Arthur inside.

Ordinarily, Arthur would be poking about, his innate curiosity getting the better of him. Now, he just sat down at the small table and waited for instruction.

Brushing at his forehead, a headache blossoming there, Merlin said, "I need firewood. Could you get some? It's around the back."

The old Arthur would have mocked him, reminding him that he was the king and Merlin the worst servant ever, said with a mischievous grin to ease the sting. But this Arthur just nodded and went to hunt for wood.

Merlin had to admit that it was a relief to have him gone.

All his hopes for a fully aware and remembering Arthur had been dashed. Now would come the hard work of helping him to rediscover his true self. Merlin just hoped that he would be strong enough and capable enough to do it.

* * *

At first, to hear Arthur breathing softly in the other bed was a comfort. The sounds of peaceful slumber was a reminder of all the nights they'd shared, danger and adventure and boredom, too, but always together, always sharing the pain and the joy. Two sides of the same coin.

Merlin had missed that more than he could say.

But in watching Arthur, the wonder and worry of it all was too much. Shattered, he fell, finally, into an uneasy sleep.

It was full of nightmares.

Once more, the horrors of Camlann assailed him: the screams of the dying, the smells of vomit and blood and gutted men, the feel of gore under his hands, the hot pulse of blood pouring out of Arthur and Merlin helpless to stop it. What use was magic if he couldn't save him? Magic and fury and utter desperation and he lived again the futility of it.

But as he dreamed, in one part of his mind, he was hearing other things, too, not just the screams of agony or the sound of swords clashing or the last gasps of dying men. Under it all, Arthur was pleading with him. _Help me, help me, Merlin._

He hadn't said that in the final moments between them. Arthur had forgiven him his lies but never asked for help, only tried to berate Merlin as he always did until there was no more breath and he grew limp and silent while Merlin raged and fought and tried everything to bring him back.

_Help me, Merlin. Help me. _

Trapped in the nightmare, clothes soaked with Arthur's lifeblood, grief and disbelief throttling him, as the rest of the world seemed to quiet, Arthur's voice was only growing louder, more frantic.

_Help me, help me, help me. You've got to listen._

Merlin knelt there, horrified, unsure of what to do. Then impossibly, there was movement and as he looked down, Arthur's lifeless body shivered for a moment and he opened his eyes, gazing up at him.

Before he could say anything, smile or rejoice or call him a prat for scaring him like that, quick as lightning, Arthur grabbed Merlin by his shirt, pulling him closer, shaking him. Eyes full of pain, he was mouthing words that seemed to echo across the battlefield.

_Helpmehelpmehelpmehelphelp…._

With that, Merlin jerked awake.

Heart racing, his throat tight with tears, he had to take a moment to breathe again. He could still feel Arthur's hands on him and the desperate pleas. It wasn't real, of course, simply a reaction to the day's events with all that worry and trepidation turning into nightmare.

Yet he couldn't ignore what he felt. It seemed so real.

Still shaking, he looked over at Arthur, half-expecting him to be awake. But he was sleeping soundly, limbs loose, messy hair and his nightshirt askew, a slight frown on his face. No muttering or pleas for help, just the slumber of an innocent.

Still Merlin couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. When morning came, that feeling remained.

* * *

In the first few days after Arthur's return, Merlin was still exhausted. He had gruesome dreams every night, each time ending with Arthur pleading with him for help. If Merlin weren't already half-mad, it would have driven him into it. Apparently, guilt was still haunting him.

During the day, he ignored it, trying instead to help the reborn Arthur regain something of his past.

He started simply. Merlin showed him around, letting him get the lay of the land, reminding him of places to avoid for now; Lot's men were still patrolling the area and it would end badly if they were found out.

Most of the time, though, rather than leaving him behind, when he went to gather the rarer herbs he needed for tinctures, he took Arthur along. It was a way of making him comfortable with his environment and more importantly with Merlin.

At least it seemed to work. Arthur was calm, listening to everything Merlin said and nodding gravely each time. He still hadn't laughed, though, nor mocked him, as the old Arthur would have done when Merlin tripped over his own feet.

But they seemed to settle in. Arthur was getting better each day and the dullness in his eyes was slowly abating. He'd even smiled once or twice when Merlin grinned at him, although it seemed more an imitation than a true sign of warmth. But Merlin would take what he could get.

After the early snow, it was warming up a bit, the last days before the onset of true winter. Merlin had stocked a larder full of meat and herbs and grains, enough to last quite a while. But now, he thought it might be a good idea to take Arthur hunting with him before they were snowed in.

Unlike Merlin, the king had always enjoyed chasing after things; Arthur used to follow him often enough in the castle in the golden days before Camlann. Besides, hunting was in his blood. He was certainly good at it, too. He'd often come back to the citadel with game, gleefully triumphant about it when the rest of the party returned empty-handed.

Merlin still wished for those days, sometimes ached for them, even with Arthur beside him now. He wanted to be called idiot again and have Arthur ruffle his hair and mock him. But he knew that those days were gone. He could only hope that this new Arthur would eventually be his friend as his king once had been.

For their hunt, Merlin gathered a few weapons: a well-used sword, a cross-bow that the hut's owner must have used for his own hunting, a long knife for close defence and a shorter one for skinning animals. He wasn't sure if he should give them to Arthur just yet, but Arthur seemed to recognize what Merlin had. In the end, Arthur took the sword while Merlin made do with the rest.

Perhaps it was more like the old days than he'd realized - Merlin as pack-horse while Arthur walked eagerly ahead of him.

He had to admit that Arthur looked good with a sword in his hand again. He was swinging it properly, too, not like a novice, but someone who understood just how to use a weapon. Merlin thought to teach Arthur some basic stances, but it looked like at least some of his memories were coming back. It was a relief. The day promised to be a good one.

It also felt right to let him go on ahead a bit. He seemed so content and it lightened Merlin's heart to see it, enough that he could breathe at last.

Of course, he couldn't let the time pass in silence; he'd often talked when Arthur was hunting, much to the king's chagrin. Now, in keeping with old times, Merlin was rambling on about the unicorn and how Arthur hunted it down and everything turned into a mess after that - when did it not? - and he was just getting to the good part about the poison and drinking it when they spied the rabbits.

Merlin would have used stealth, the crossbow and a bit of magic to capture them, but Arthur had other ideas.

Sword swinging, he suddenly barrelled off toward the creatures. Of course, the rabbits hopped away, trying desperately to escape. But Arthur was fast, surprisingly so. He couldn't catch them, not when they were running to and fro, making sharp turns and burrowing under bushes, but he tried.

Watching him scurry after the rabbits, Merlin felt the joy of having Arthur back bubbling up inside of him. All the worry and nightmare exhaustion faded away. It was so good to see him energetic and carefree.

And when Arthur slipped and fell into the mud and snow, it was just too ridiculous. Merlin started laughing, couldn't stop laughing at his expression of surprise. He looked so much like the old Arthur that he felt a rush of affection warming him.

But Arthur's surprise morphed into confusion and then fury as he stood up. Brushing himself off, sending Merlin a fierce look, he grabbed his sword again and stalked off after the rabbits.

That was not a good sign. Realizing that his amusement at the situation may have been a mistake, wanting to apologize before things got worse, he called out after Arthur, but he ignored him.

Merlin didn't know what to do. He would have mocked the old Arthur and got him to smile after a while, once he saw the absurdity in it all, but he was unsure of how this Arthur would react. After all, there was no real history between them, only a few days of quiet talks and stories about Camelot and how it had been once. For all he knew, this new Arthur resented what Merlin had done by bringing him back, even hated him for it.

He couldn't let Arthur get on ahead, though. The forest was confusing enough to someone who knew its pathways; he would get lost without Merlin to guide him.

Hurrying to catch up, he said, "Arthur, let them go. It's not worth the trouble. I'm sure there are deer…."

The glare Arthur sent back was deadly, his face set, ferocious and fixed, the gleam in his eyes icy.

Merlin's next words died in his throat. He shivered at the sudden cold in the air.

The moment held, both of them staring at the other, Merlin growing more and more worried at the way Arthur wasn't saying anything, just watching him with those fierce eyes.

Then one of the rabbits bolted right in front of Arthur and he reacted, bringing his sword down in a swift chop. The creature went flying and came down hard, torn apart by the blade.

Before Merlin could say another word, Arthur was already there, hacking at the rabbit until the poor creature was little more than a churned mess of blood and bone.

Appalled and feeling sick at the sight, Merlin said, "Arthur, it's dead. Stop it."

Arthur rounded on him, sword pointing straight at his heart. He could see bits of gore on Arthur's cheek, but it was the way he was looking at him that made Merlin uneasy. Very carefully, he said, "Arthur, we needed that for dinner. Perhaps next time, one blow would do."

"You thought I couldn't catch it." His voice was cold as ice. With the sword steady in his hand and his eyes still wild with ferocity, he looked very dangerous. "That I wasn't good enough."

Merlin knew that he needed to calm him down before Arthur did something rash. The sword was worrying enough, but it was Arthur's state of mind that concerned him more. "No, that isn't true. I just thought it would be more trouble than it was worth. Rabbits don't have that much meat on them and…."

"You laughed at me." It looked as if Arthur didn't believe him, that he knew Merlin was just trying to placate him.

Ordinarily, he'd have told Arthur, the old Arthur, that of course he'd been laughing at him. He'd tell him that it was funny in a I-can't-believe-he-was-that-clumsy kind of way. He'd threaten to tell all the knights about it later. And they'd bicker and snap at each other until Merlin relented and then let the story slip out sometime during the next banquet.

But this man, this Arthur, would never understand. Treading very softly, Merlin said, "I didn't…I mean I did, but I didn't. Even when I was at Camelot, when Arthur slipped, I'd laugh. It's just a reaction to surprise, that's all. I didn't mean to make you unhappy."

"You are lying. You'd never laugh at your Arthur. He was a great king. You've told me so often enough. You can't stop talking about him." As Arthur spoke, his voice got louder, sharper. Then taking the sword, he plunged it into the ground and snarling, he said, "I'm not him, no matter how much you want me to be."

"Of course, you are." Merlin was horrified at the turn of events. He had no idea that talking about the king could go so horribly wrong. Reaching out, he tried to calm Arthur down but he was having none of it.

Jerking back, he frowned at Merlin for a brief moment and then turned and strode away.

"I'm not him."


	3. Chapter 3

Merlin followed him, of course. He couldn't let Arthur get lost, and sword-less he'd be vulnerable, too. But Arthur seemed to have an uncanny sense of where he was and he found his way back to the hut without any help. Not that he'd have taken any.

The rest of the day went as expected: frosty silence on Arthur's part and Merlin not knowing what to do to regain his trust. If it had been the old Arthur, Merlin would have backed off and slowly made small comments here and there to get him to relax and think about what he'd done. But this man seemed to hold anger inside so readily and there was still a coldness in him that set Merlin's teeth on edge.

Finally, Merlin gave up and went to bed.

Falling into sleep, of course the dreams gathered around him. Screams, the clash of swords and Arthur's face, pain-pale, looking at him with fearful eyes. The nightmarish memories of Arthur's final battle, but as he turned toward Merlin, the sounds began to quiet, and there was bird song and the brush of branches against the snow. And Merlin watched as Arthur's armour faded into the dull browns of peasant clothing.

Arthur swung his sword again, not against the Saxon horde but a frightened rabbit. Merlin could see the savage rage in his face, not the determination of a king to fight for his kingdom and his people but hatred distorting his mouth, collecting in deep scowls, the hard line of his jaw.

His sword was everywhere and the rabbit was nothing more than meat and bone.

Merlin said, "Stop, stop, please. You shouldn't do this."

Letting out an ugly laugh, Arthur turned the blade toward him. "I am so much more than that pathetic king of yours. Never someone that weak. And if you think you can stop me, think again."

The dream changed. Instead of a bloodied rabbit, there were villagers sprawled across the dirt, young and old, bleeding, crying out for mercy and others were already stiffening in death and among them Arthur stood tall, his sword painted in gore. "I am not him."

Those words were echoing in his head, hard and final and yet as Merlin stood there, knife in hand ready to kill this monster, they grew more frantic.

_I'm not him, Merlin. I'm not… help me, help me._

It was Arthur's voice, the one he'd let die all those months ago, the one he'd lost forever.

_He's… I'm not him. I'm trapped… trapped… help me. Shouldn't be here. Trapped… trapped… trapped…help me, helpmehelphelphelp. _

When Merlin woke, he was shaking with grief. It would seem that the madness would not leave him alone. He just hoped that what he'd seen in his nightmares was just that, a bad dream and not a vision of things to come.

* * *

It didn't help that, in the morning, he could barely look at Arthur and not see blood on his hands. It was all he could do to sound normal and ask what he wanted for breakfast. Still the servant, even now.

They ate their porridge in silence. Arthur glanced at him from time to time, almost as if he were judging him and finding him lacking somehow.

Merlin decided that he'd ignore the previous day and try to start over. "I will be out for a while. I noticed some winter herbs on our way back, and with the coming storm and us forced inside, I'll have time to make tinctures. I can show you if you like when I return."

"Tinctures."

Arthur's flat tone was setting him on edge again. He wasn't sure if it was the nightmares and all the guilt that went with it that made him feel so off-balance, or if it were something more. He dismissed it, though. It wasn't Arthur's fault that Merlin was reacting to a simple statement with such anxiety.

"We will need supplies and I have little money as yet. There are several villages around here where I could sell them."

Standing up, gathering his satchel and walking staff, Merlin was about to leave when Arthur said, "You don't want me with you."

How little he knew Merlin. How very much he wanted Arthur to be with him, and be everything he was meant to be - before Mordred cut him down. The memory of the day he lost Arthur made him breathless with longing and now he was trying to find Arthur again and this man, this Arthur, wasn't him. Not yet, maybe not ever.

Yet it wasn't fair to blame him for Merlin's failures. "I thought that you might like some time alone without me hovering over you."

Arthur's mouth turned stubborn. "I could hunt while you gather your plants."

"I don't think it wise, Arthur. Best stay here. There is snow coming and it might turn dangerous." As much as he wanted him to feel safe, Merlin had to get away and think without Arthur dogging his tracks.

But instead of accepting Merlin's excuse, Arthur looked like he'd been slapped, all narrowed eyes and disbelief. "You would take _your_ Arthur with you."

"You are my Arthur. I'm only warning you because I'm not sure…."

How had this become so complicated? Arthur was growing more and more defiant and Merlin didn't know that it could even be this way. The book on necromancy hadn't said anything about personality changes or emotions, only obedience. He hadn't wanted that, though. After all, if Arthur was to become the king again, he'd need to stand on his own. When Merlin called him from the lake, he'd wished for his Arthur to return with all his flaws, good and bad. It would seem that Merlin had got his wish.

"You are going." Arthur was standing there, head held high, still defiant.

"I'm a sorcerer. The weather does not concern me." What a mess he'd made of it. He really needed to get away and think. "Stay here. I won't be long."

"As you command."

That didn't sound good, but Merlin had already done the wrong thing apparently and any arguing would only make things worse. "Arthur, please, just stay here. I'll be as quick as I can and then we can talk more about what is troubling you."

As Merlin left, the frigid silence behind him was deafening.

He knew he should have been more understanding. It must be very confusing for Arthur to be thrust into a new situation and Merlin's expectations weren't helping. He'd thought it would be easy, that with a few remembrances Arthur would regain what he once was. But it was as if this Arthur only looked like the part; inside there was something darker. He took offense too easily, thought the worst of Merlin too easily. Felt rage all too easily.

At first Merlin thought perhaps he had gained the personality of the prattish prince he'd first met when he came to Camelot. That man had been arrogant, cruel and entitled, but even then he had glimmerings of compassion. Merlin hadn't seen that in this Arthur.

But there was more to it than that. It was as if he revelled in the darkness - or was that the nightmares talking? It was possible that Merlin was reacting to his own fears. Or perhaps the madness had returned and he was seeing shadows where there were none.

Still, it was early days yet. Merlin made mistakes, but he'd try to correct them. He'd just tread more carefully in future. After all, Arthur or not, he was now his responsibility.

And at least he wasn't alone. Selfish as it was, that had to count for something.

* * *

When Merlin returned, his satchel full of greens, Arthur was nowhere to be found.

Swearing, he ran outside, looking for clues as to where he could have gone. There were faint traces pointing south, in the direction opposite to where Merlin had been. A footprint here and there and a long thin mark as if he'd been dragging the sword along with him.

At least, Merlin hoped he'd taken the blade. He hated to think that Arthur was out there, weapon-less.

He should never have left Arthur alone. He should have known better. He'd been an idiot, thinking that Arthur would obey him, when he'd been so upset about everything.

Panicking a bit, he realized that Arthur could have left hours ago, right after he'd gone. He'd have plenty of time to travel far; he could be anywhere. And if things couldn't get any worse, it began to snow.

Merlin swore again, then taking a deep breath, he started to run, sending his magic outward, looking for the trail that would lead him to Arthur. It didn't help that he'd not been keeping fit; it wasn't as if it mattered when he was living in the cave, deep in the throes of madness. But now he was out of breath, wheezing with the effort. He couldn't stop, though. Anything could happen in the time it would take to find Arthur and it would be his fault if it did.

With that, he sped up, almost flying across the ground. The forest grew darker as the snow drifted down and it began to lay, dusting the landscape with white. It was a good thing he didn't need to see the marks of Arthur's passage, that he had magic to guide him. The trail would have been impossible to find otherwise.

But it was slow going, even with Merlin's pace, rocky terrain and it was more than a mile before he finally caught up with him.

The sounds of a sword going into meat and grunts of satisfaction and Arthur's voice muttering something. Merlin couldn't hear clearly, but when he rounded the corner, he found Arthur whacking at a dead animal with his blade.

A buck, fairly large, lay at his feet. The head was already severed and his rack splintered as if Arthur had pounded it with rocks, and there were several cuts into the hide. It would appear that rabbits were not the only thing he liked to slice open. He must have caught the deer by surprise because there was no sign of a crossbow and outrunning it was not possible, not without horses. Or dogs to chase it down.

It was possible that it was injured when Arthur killed it and Merlin looked to see, but at that moment, Arthur glanced up.

He stilled abruptly, pulling the sword into a guard position, his face filled with a kind of burning rage. Then he straightened, stubbornness in his stance as he stared back at Merlin. "We needed meat."

It was obvious that he wasn't going to offer an apology or make excuses for disobeying him. Merlin wanted to yell at him for being so foolish but it was clear that any kind of admonishment was not going to work. He had wanted to be more understanding and perhaps this was a place to start.

"Yes, we did." Merlin stepped closer. "We will have to get it back to the hut somehow. Do you think you can carry it?"

Looking first at his sword and then down at the deer, Arthur lowered the blade and nodded.

"We will have to dress it first. Otherwise it might be too heavy." Gutting the carcass would be a messy, bloody job but it would lighten it considerably and make things easier for them once they got back.

At that, Arthur looked around, guilt flicking in his eyes and then he said, "That would take too long. I can carry it."

"I know you want to do this, but I'm worried about the snow and you slipping." Arthur's mouth turned flat and he glanced out into the forest for a moment, and then shook his head. But before he could protest again, Merlin knelt down beside the carcass, pulled out his knife, said, "Just let me gut it and we'll be gone in no time."

Arthur seemed to recognize that Merlin wasn't about to let it go so he stepped back, away from the buck. He looked nervous and he kept staring toward the woods, but he stood guard as Merlin slit open the buck and started pulling out the entrails.

It was a bloody mess and Merlin would have to clean himself thoroughly when they returned, but it didn't take too long. It wasn't like the first time when his prat prince had stood over him, berating him the whole time, making him so edgy that his knife slipped and he'd cut into the bladder, ruining the meat. For months after that, Arthur mocked him about it whenever they went hunting. But he'd learned to do it right eventually and now it was almost second nature.

He wiped his hands in the snow, trying to get as much blood off as he could. As he stood up, he could see Arthur looking out into the distance. It seemed odd, but he wasn't going to challenge Arthur about it just yet. Their truce, or whatever it was, was too fragile at the moment and if they were going to argue again, Merlin would prefer it in the comfort of a warm hut, not standing outside in the snow freezing to death.

Unfortunately, he hadn't brought any rope to tie up the deer or anything to make a sled and haul it out that way. Arthur would have to carry it.

"Arthur, can you?" Merlin pointed down at the gutted buck. Arthur gave a start, then nodded.

As they staggered along, Merlin carrying the sword and lighting the way with his magic, Arthur was silent except for the occasional grunt whenever he shifted the carcass. It looked heavy; Arthur's face was strained with the effort and his tunic was soaked in blood.

Merlin didn't want to accuse him of anything, but he did wonder how Arthur had managed to kill a deer without a crossbow or dogs or horses to run it down. He let the silence last a while, though, thinking it through. At last, he said, "That was quite a feat. I don't think I know of anyone else who could have tracked down and killed a deer like that."

Arthur sent him a wary look, grunted again as he tramped through the snow, but said nothing.

"I'd like to know how you did it so that next time I can help."

"It was injured. Was easy to kill. Weak." Breathless as he was, it sounded as if Arthur didn't want to talk about it.

"It is past rutting season so it's not likely another buck. It didn't look sick, did it? I'd worry about tainted meat." Merlin knew he was babbling a bit, but the silence and hostility pouring off Arthur was worrying him.

"I found it with its throat torn. Must have run into a tree." He looked at Merlin a moment then turned away. "Stupid thing to do."

"Is that why you cut off its head?" He would have liked to have kept the antlers. They could have been carved to make into pins or combs, another source of income, but there was nothing to do about it now. Arthur had pulverized them.

"It tried to gore me. We needed meat so I killed it." Another glare, then he shifted the weight again and kept walking. "Why are you asking me all these questions? Don't you believe me?"

It was an odd thing to say, but everything about the day was odd.

"Of course, I do. Just don't run off like that again. You might have got hurt and I don't think I… just don't leave again without telling me first." Then he shut up and let the snow-soaked silence fill the night sky.

* * *

By the time he'd cut up the deer into small strips and hung them above the charcoal brazier to cure, Merlin was exhausted. Arthur had remained gruff and uncommunicative, cleaning himself off and helping with the meat, but little else.

Merlin didn't want to sleep. His nightmares were happening more and more frequently and the last few nights, Arthur's cries for help had been intense.

Tonight was no different.

The battle of Camlann held less pain now, although to see Arthur being cut down would never be anything short of agony, but his dream did not linger there. Instead, there was snow and the quiet that only winter can bring. For a while, it would seem that Merlin finally found peace, but even as the white flakes fell, the nightmare was not done with him.

Arthur's voice beckoned him from beyond the trees, pulling him toward where Merlin had last seen him butchering the deer.

_Help me, Merlin. See what he is. See what he's done. He's not me, he's not me. Help me, helphelphelp._

But unlike the other nights, Merlin couldn't take it anymore. It wasn't just a dream. It was leaching into his mind, driving him back into madness and he couldn't, he just couldn't handle it.

Instead of ignoring it all, he shouted into the shadowed air, "Stop it. Stop haunting me. Just stop."

_At last. I wasn't sure I would ever get through your thick skull. _

Merlin wanted to back away. The nightmare was made worse by Arthur's insult; he'd craved that more than anything and yet it just hurt so much to hear it, to hear any insult again from him. Another reminder of what he'd lost.

But Arthur's voice kept calling him, drawing him forward. His dream self passed the entrails of the animal, even now moving and bubbling as it rotted, and walked on toward Arthur's voice. Only a few hours ago, the other Arthur had kept looking in that direction and now Merlin ran toward it. There was something there, something he hadn't wanted him to see and his king's voice was calling to him.

_Merlin, see what he's done. What he is. I'm trapped inside a monster. You have to do something before it's too late. I can't stop him._

He didn't want to look, but in dreams, it wasn't possible. As he rounded the corner, he could see bits of fur and gore overlaid with snow. It looked like a small dog, torn apart. There were predators after all in the forest and the poor thing must have wandered off only to be killed when it couldn't find its way home. But beyond that was another dog and another and a little further on, a hand lay in the snow.

_He killed them. He laughed when they begged for mercy. He loves the blood and the excitement of killing and… he is a monster. He wants to kill. _

Two men, at least it looked like two men, although it was hard to tell with them in pieces, with their swords nearby. A crossbow lay a little further as if someone had dropped it as they ran. Hacked to pieces with an axe or a sword and left for the wolves.

Merlin turned away, walking slowly into the snow-painted forest, pristine white while behind him, Arthur was still calling after him.

_He'd kill you if he could. You have to stop him before it's too late. _

His face wet with grief, blinded by tears, Merlin shook his head. "This is not real. This is my punishment for letting you die."

_Mordred killed me, Merlin. Not you, never you. Let me go. I'm not supposed to be here. I'm trapped inside. Help me escape. Help me._

With that, he woke up, his hands brushing at his damp cheeks, feeling as if he wanted to vomit and he almost did. It took a few moments before his breathing slowed and even then, his throat felt like he'd been screaming for hours.

But as he turned his head to look toward Arthur, to make sure he hadn't woken him, he could see eyes staring straight back at him. It took everything in him not to jump up and demand to know what had happened in the forest, to question him about the dead men. But it was only a dream and it would be foolish to talk about something Arthur hadn't done.

Arthur said softly, "You were shouting in your sleep."

Not wanting to talk about it but knowing something needed to be said, Merlin replied, "Just a bad dream. Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep."

But Arthur wouldn't let it alone. "What were you dreaming about?"

"Camlann," Merlin lied. "Camlann and how I wasn't in time."

He certainly wasn't about to tell him that his king was haunting him and accusing Arthur of terrible things. He shivered at the dream images. So much destruction and pain; it had indeed looked like the dead men had been torn apart by someone who enjoyed doing it. But it wasn't real. Merlin had to keep reminding himself of it.

"If you had been, I wouldn't be here now."

Bile was rising in Merlin's throat again. To think that this Arthur wouldn't be here if not for his prat's death made a kind of horrible logic, but for him to think that was both tragic and true. Denying it would just be a lie and Arthur would see right through him anyways. Merlin said, "Yes, I suppose you are right."

"I am glad…," Arthur hesitated and it was almost as if he wanted to say something else, but instead he said, "I am glad I am here."

"Me, too."

Merlin wanted so much for it to be true that he was honestly happy that Arthur had returned. But all he could see were the nightmare images of dead bodies; all he could hear was Arthur's voice begging him for help. Was his subconscious trying to tell him something, or was it just guilt haunting his dreams?

He knew that when morning came, he would go back and put all his doubts to rest. And then maybe, just maybe, he'd find some peace.

* * *

He'd left Arthur sleeping. Overnight, it had rained and the ground was mostly clear of snow by the time he left the hut. It was muddy in spots, but he could see where he was going and he found the place where Arthur had killed the deer easily enough.

There had been scavengers there already and the entrails were gone. The ground looked churned up, obviously a fight among predators, but it was the right location.

Taking a deep breath, he kept walking. The place where his dreams indicated that murder had taken place was just around the corner and as he turned, he could see bone there. Human bone. Whatever the bodies had been like before, the scavengers had made a mess of it all. There were bits of bones scattered about, some thoroughly gnawed, but others still showed that they were leg or arm, some definitely human though. Beyond, there was a crossbow, just as his dream had shown, and other things, too: knives, a battered sword, crossbow bolts, a length of rope, half-eaten boots and shredded clothing. From what little he could tell, it looked like it had been a hunting party or perhaps bandits but most of what remained was too far gone to know for sure.

One thing _was_ certain. Arthur had lied to him. And possibly, maybe, his Arthur was trying to communicate with him through dreams.

* * *

It took him a long time to return. Hesitating, standing outside the hut, he thought about all that had taken place.

He wasn't sure what he'd do when he faced Arthur. But it was Merlin's fault that he was there at all and it was because of his loneliness and grief those other men had died.

He couldn't let it happen again. Somehow he had to make sure Arthur understood that he was only allowed to kill in self-defence or trying to protect someone else. There was no honour in murdering men in cold blood.

But what would he do if it did happen again? Would he have to courage to kill someone so out of control? Someone that he loved enough to bring him back from the dead? Someone he might never see again if he did? Or would he forever be a coward because he couldn't let Arthur go?

He missed the royal prat with everything in him, missed the insults, the way he looked when they shared something more than just mockery. Missed, too, the amused glances and the secret smiles, the way Arthur rolled his eyes when Leon would drone on and on about tariffs. He missed Arthur groaning about Merlin's terrible manservant skills and the way he'd berate anyone else who dared to mock Merlin for it.

He'd give anything to bring him back, anything at all; he'd bargain the fates if he could. But he couldn't. The Arthur he knew and loved was dead; he wasn't coming back.

All he could do now was try to keep this Arthur from killing again and hope that, in time, he'd learn the meanings of compassion, duty and honour.

With renewed determination, he pushed open the door and confronted a scowling Arthur who said, "You left."

Merlin ignored him, moved into the hut and closed the door. He gestured toward the table. "Arthur, sit down." But the other man just looked at him, turning first pale and then his mouth flattening in stubbornness. He must have seen something in Merlin's face. Arthur stood there, arms crossed, looking as if he was waiting for confrontation.

So be it. Merlin said, "What happened yesterday?"

"I told you. I went hunting. I found an injured buck. I killed it and then you came." His whole attitude was that of defiance, as if he were the injured party, not two men who had been brutally murdered.

That he'd lie to Merlin so easily just made him disheartened; his Arthur would never have done that. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, trying not to let anger take him, he said, "I found the bodies." The way Arthur reacted, his eyes darting away, how he wouldn't look at him told Merlin everything. "I want the truth this time."

There was a long moment when it seemed as if Arthur would keep lying to him - Merlin had done it often enough to his king that he could read the signs all too easily. But Arthur just nodded. "They attacked me. I didn't want to kill them but they left me no choice."

It sounded like it might have actually happened that way but if it had, why hadn't Arthur said something?

"And you didn't think to mention this?"

There was a flash of guilt laced with fury, but then Arthur slumped a bit, leaning back against the wall, looking everywhere but at Merlin. He hesitated a moment, glanced at him and then away again. Swallowing hard, in a soft miserable voice, Arthur said, "I thought you'd be upset. I can't seem to do anything right and you… you might leave me if you knew."

No wonder he was acting out like that. To think that the one person he knew in the world would discard him just because he didn't measure up to impossible standards was appalling - and it was Merlin's fault.

"Arthur…."

Shaking his head, still not looking at Merlin, he said, "You are always talking about your king. I'm not him and it just makes you sad. Every time you look at me. I can see it in your eyes, you don't want me here. You want him." He turned around, blinking rapidly as if holding back tears. "I won't be a prat like he was. I want to serve you but you keep pushing me away." Arthur finally looked at him, blue eyes pleading for understanding. "Can't you be my friend, too? Like you were with him? Even a little?"

"I had no idea you felt this way." Merlin was at his side in a moment, pulling him close for a long-overdue hug. Then he pulled back, one hand still holding onto Arthur's arm, giving him a little shake. "I am your friend and I will try and do better in future… but you can't kill people whenever you feel like it."

Arthur frowned at that. "I've been trained to kill since birth."

"That doesn't mean that you go around…." He gave Arthur another shake then let him go, and said, "and kill people on a whim."

"They attacked me. I defended myself just like you said I should." He was still scowling, looking as if he expected Merlin to back down, looking as if he was sure he was right and Merlin was wrong.

"What did they do to make you think that they were after you?"

"They thought I was taking their deer. They set their dogs on me. Then they attacked me. I killed them. I'm sorry."

It sounded plausible. It sounded like something that could have easily happened.

Merlin had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even though the Arthur in his nightmares had led him to the place where those men had died, it could have been just his subconscious telling him to look there. It could be that his dreams were nothing but grief still gnawing at him or madness trying to pull him back down into the abyss.

Still, Merlin had to be firm about the lying. How could he guide Arthur if he kept things from him? "You should have told me the truth right away."

A flash of anger in his eyes and then Arthur shook his head. "You lied to your king every day."

If his nightmares weren't enough, the truth of what Arthur was saying hit him squarely in the chest. For a moment, Merlin could hardly breathe for the agony of it. All the lies, all the myriad ways that he had deceived his best friend every single damned day and all he had done in the end was destroy him, destroyed them both and the dream of a golden age for Albion, all because he couldn't bear to tell Arthur the truth.

"Yes, I lied to him." Merlin closed his eyes against the pain. "And it got him killed."

It took a few moments to keep the tears at bay, to shove them back down into the blackness where his heart used to be.

"Don't lie to me again." A heartbeat later, Arthur nodded. Satisfied that he was telling the truth, Merlin said, "The ground is too hard for those men to get a proper burial, but we are going back to put them to the fire at least. And you will promise me not to do this again. Only kill if absolutely necessary, in defence or protection for someone else and always give them a chance to withdraw. Do you understand?"

Another nod. "I promise I'll do better."

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn't.


	4. Chapter 4

Still feeling out of balance with Arthur, after they'd burned what was left of the bodies, he tried to make amends by showing him some of the sword fighting techniques he'd learned in his years at Camelot. It wasn't enough to make up for the time Arthur had treated Merlin less than he should have but it seemed to make him happy.

He was adept, too, soaking up the information quickly. It was almost as if he were born to fight. He had Arthur's grace in movement and there were echoes of the past in the way he swooped and parried, in the way he brought his sword up to block Merlin's attacks.

It hurt to look at him, though. His sweaty face, the way he smiled when he learned something new, the zeal in his eyes was too close to the memory of his Arthur's final days before it all went to hell.

It was a relief to finally call it a night and prepare for bed. Besides, Merlin needed to put his doubts to rest once and for all and for that he needed to confront whatever was haunting him.

When he heard the king's voice, he was almost relieved.

Hunting among dead bodies, Camelot knights still and broken, desperation was pushing him to find Arthur before it was too late. The smell of blood, the sound of crows feasting and in the background, Arthur calling him. _Merlin, Merlin, help me. Find me._

Shouting back, Merlin said, "You're not real. You're not Arthur. Please, just let me have some peace."

There was a shocked silence and then Camlann's horror melted into mist, white and thick. Merlin stumbled forward; the ground was slippery with dead grass and snow but it looked familiar enough to make him shudder. When the fog cleared, he was standing by Avalon's clear waters. Cold and still, the air was heavy with portends.

He shivered again. Merlin did not want to be here, desperately did not want to see Arthur's dead body floating away from him. It was here that he truly knew failure; it was here that madness took him, twisted him around so much that he'd be willing to bring someone back from the dead to stave off the loneliness and the grief. It was here that it must end if he were ever to be whole again.

"I know you followed me. I can feel you inside my head." Merlin was raging still, roaring out his frustration, trying to ignore his traitorous heart that kept beating _Arthur, Arthur_. "I want you out. I want you gone. Can't you just leave me alone?"

The mist began to form, silver in the light, the glint of chainmail growing bright enough to blind him and when he could see again, there was Arthur standing there, wearing the same armour and Pendragon red that he'd worn the day Merlin shoved out his body into Avalon's lake. Not quite real, not quite solid but still it was his beloved king.

_I'm trapped, Merlin. You've trapped me inside that monster when you brought him back. It wasn't meant to be like this. I wasn't…._

Close enough to touch, Merlin wanted to reach out and hug him, feel the heft and weight of him against his heart but it was all a lie that his poor mind conjured up. Just a lie and he couldn't face it, not now, not ever.

Hands clawing at his skull, the taste of iron flooding his mouth as he bit down hard, embracing the pain, knowing that it was the only way to keep his madness at bay, he said, "Arthur, you are not here. You're just my grief talking to me, twisting me up inside."

_I told you once that no man is worth your tears. Do you remember_?

How could something so insubstantial feel so real? How could his longings trick him so badly? Merlin closed his eyes a moment, swallowed hard as his face grew wet with grief.

"Don't do this. I can't…."

_And you said that I wasn't, and you were right. But you were. You were. I didn't know it until it was too late._ _Merlin, help me. He's going to kill again and I won't be able to stop him._

Frowning, knowing that he was listening to a phantom that wasn't really there, knowing that it was insanity but unable to stop, Merlin said, "I can't accept this. It's my fault he's here. I have a duty to help him. He promised he wouldn't and I believe him."

_He's lying to you. He's telling you what you want to hear. You want to believe him so badly that you ignore what is right in front of you. _

Lifting his head, Merlin brushed hard at his tears. "You have no right to say that. I'm not that foolish peasant from Ealdor anymore."

_Merlin, he will kill again, no matter what you believe. And when he does, you know what you will have to do. _

That sent a chill through him. "He won't. I won't let him." When Arthur just shook his head, Merlin said, "I want you gone. I want you to leave me alone. Let me regain something of what I'd lost when you died. Please."

When Arthur lay dying in his arms, when he'd finally seen Merlin for who he was and accepted him, he'd looked at him the exact same way this ghost was looking at him now. Tender and with eyes so full of love that Merlin's throat clogged with sorrow at the sight.

_We will meet again, Merlin._

He wanted to believe it, so much. But he knew better now.

"No, the dragon told me we would and he lied, like he always did, telling me that you were the Once and Future King, that we had this glorious destiny together. I believed him. Like a fool, I believed him and instead…." In his chest, there was anger and longing and such a loss of hope that Merlin felt himself sinking back into despair. Somehow he found the will to shake himself free of it. "The Arthur I've brought back will be my legacy. I'd done everything wrong with you and because of it, you… died. I won't let it happen again. So please, stay away and let me finally have some peace."

Regret stark in his eyes, Arthur faded into the mist. And Merlin was alone.

* * *

When he woke, he knew he needed to take control; otherwise the nightmares could drive him so far into insanity that he might never recover. Arthur's every word had been like a knife-thrust into his heart and no matter how much he reminded himself that it was not real, it seemed as true as anything he'd felt about his king. It was failure upon failure and it had to end.

So when night came and the shadows threatened to overwhelm him, for the first time since Camlann, Merlin took something to give him peace. It wasn't much. He'd always been a light-weight when it came to drink and when he added belladonna to the wine, at least his nights were solid black.

In many ways, it was a relief. He didn't have to think about the reborn Arthur or his king calling to him, berating, begging for release. It left him groggy in the morning and sometimes things were misplaced, things he didn't remember moving. It could have been his magic rebelling, he supposed, a way of reminding him that he wasn't facing up to his responsibilities. He wasn't sure. But Arthur never said anything and it didn't matter anyway.

The memory of the nightmares faded over the next weeks. He got enough sleep, too, drunk as he was, even though he still felt his king's loss. He was also more able to deal with Arthur's increasingly jittery reactions to things when he didn't get his way.

It was like living with a child or a self-indulgent prat. Arthur kept pushing the boundaries and sometimes Merlin let him, just because he felt guilty about it. He was a natural when it came to killing things. After a while, Merlin noticed that Arthur would be considerably calmer when they went hunting. There would be a build-up of tension, biting in its intensity, and then release as the blood starting flowing or when they could hear the screams of dying animals.

It worried Merlin, but his Arthur had enjoyed hunting, too. He had never revelled in a creature's pain, though. For him, it was more a matter of the hunt than the kill.

Knowing now how it upset him, Merlin also stopped telling stories about the king. Instead, he talked of Gwen's life going from servant to queen and the other knights' tales of growth and redemption instead. He spoke about the people he'd met, of the Druids with their choices for peace and non-confrontation, although Arthur couldn't seem to understand why they would do such a thing, of shepherds and nobles, good people and bad.

Arthur was especially eager to hear of Morgana's destructive descent and how she'd gathered forces over and over again to try to conquer Camelot with magic and devastation. Merlin hoped it was because Arthur was feeling a connection to the kingdom, and he went into great detail about Morgana's tactics to bring Camelot down and destroy its citizens. Arthur would often listen for hours about it and he asked some insightful questions, too.

It was painful, though. Merlin blamed himself. He should have helped Morgana more. She'd asked for understanding in those first years, begged for it and instead he'd turned her away, let her flounder as her magic grew. He'd thought her a friend and yet he left her to Morgause's machinations. In the end, she was little more than a mad woman with a lust for blood; Merlin's duty was clear. But the memory of her face as she died at his hand still haunted him even now.

He didn't dare risk speaking about Lancelot. Arthur's story began in the same way the false Lance's had and Merlin didn't want to answer questions about the end of it. He hoped for a better outcome, anyway, one where the new Arthur would learn to rule wisely and with justice, to right the wrongs that had happened since the downfall of Camelot and perhaps even bring it back to its former glory.

It was proving difficult, though. Much as his Arthur had been insulting and unintentionally cruel at times, he had done it more from ignorance and entitlement than any real enjoyment of it. Merlin wasn't so sure about the Arthur living with him now. He wasn't sure at all, if truth be told.

But Merlin made his choice and now he'd have to deal with the consequences.

Then, one day in early spring, everything changed.

* * *

The riders, five in all, were dressed in furs and leather, and by the look of them, brutish and wanting trouble. The leader sneered down at Merlin, then spat in his direction. "Seems you'd be wanting a bit of protection. Ten silver pieces and we'll make sure the bandits in these parts leave you alone." Behind him, there was a snicker and the one talking to Merlin grinned.

Merlin tried not to look back toward the hut. Hoping that Arthur wouldn't be foolish enough to try to come to Merlin's rescue - he'd be fine against one or two but five was another matter, Merlin said, "And if I don't?"

Soft mutterings and the thugs were all seemingly eager for confrontation. The rabble's leader said, "My friend back there needs practice with his mace skills. I'm sure he'd be willing to let you help him with that." One of the men, greasy and with a necklace made of what looked like human teeth, swung his weapon a bit, showing off.

"I'm sure he would," Merlin said dryly. "I haven't that much coin. Would you take pelts in trade?" He could destroy them all with magic but it would be easier and less trouble to send them on their way. He could even muddle their memories if it came down to it. But he wasn't sure if this was a small band or a cohort of a larger group. Marauders since Arthur's death were on the rise and even he had to be careful.

In any case, he didn't want King Lot to find them, not now, not until Arthur was a great deal more ready to take command.

And then it was too late.

As the leader bent down, a crossbow bolt whistled past, hit the mace-wielder in the chest. The man crumpled to the ground just as one of the others was already throwing a knife at Merlin. That was easy enough to divert but then he was coming straight for Merlin, horse charging and axe in hand.

Arthur came pounding out, sending another bolt into one of the men, then his sword was already pushing into a third. The horses were rearing, one racing away and for a moment, it was chaos. The leader was screaming at them both, blade raised high and Merlin sent a wave of magic toward the thug, throwing him from the saddle.

With unbelievable speed, Arthur had somehow managed to engage with the fourth man, axe meeting sword, but Merlin didn't have time to worry. This Arthur was just as adept as his king had been, and before Merlin could draw a breath to warn him, he had already taken the brigand down, slicing his throat as he did so.

The leader was scrambling for cover when Merlin shoved him to the ground, magic holding him still. He needed to know why the bandits had targeted them, the size of their band and if they could expect any more to come for them.

Babbling curses at them, the thug struggled against Merlin's magic. He looked as if he'd tear them apart if he could get his hands on them, but he was caught fast.

Arthur was already running toward them both.

Gesturing for him to stay back, Merlin shouted, "Don't! We need to..."

Eyes wild with battle-lust, Arthur ignored him; he was already slicing across the man's belly.

The thug let out a scream but Arthur was striking at him, sword swinging wildly, blood and gore flying. There was a moment's gurgle but mercifully, the sound died quickly. As Merlin watched in horror, what was once a man turned into bits of meat and bone as Arthur's blade struck at him over and over again. He had to turn away and still he could see one booted foot jerking in time with the sword blows.

So much for the compassion of Arthur Pendragon.

For a moment or two, he tried to get through to him, to make him stop, but it was useless. It was as if Arthur couldn't hear him, so deep was he in battle mode. So he let him continue; it was already too late for the bandit anyway. All the while, Merlin was trying very hard not to vomit.

Finally, helpless to stop Arthur, he went inside and waited for the storm to pass. He knew he should be thinking of what to do next but all he could see was the hunger in Arthur's eyes, the gore splattered across his face and the way he sounded as he battered the body into oblivion.

It was some minutes later before Arthur came in, grinning with satisfaction. "Did you see? How easily they died by my hand. It felt like I was flying when I gutted them."

"Arthur, you should have let me handle it." He hoped he sounded calm when all he wanted to do was shake some sense into him or else drink himself into a stupor.

Giving out a little laugh, Arthur threw down the sword onto the table, bits of blood and gut smearing across the wood, and said, "You'd have talked them to death. They were scum. They deserved what they got."

Even now, it was hard not to look at him with revulsion. "I needed information. Now, we don't know their plans, if there are more of them, even if the horses that ran off went straight home to wherever the bandits are hiding."

Something of what he was feeling must have shown through. Arthur wheeled on him, glaring at him with narrowed eyes. "I did what needed to be done. Your king would have done the same."

Arthur Pendragon would never have done such a thing. Even when he was an arrogant prat and an idiot to boot, his sense of fair play would have come through. At least he'd have given the bandits clean deaths, not this. His voice shaking, Merlin said, "My king would have shown mercy. He would have given them a fair trial."

"Your king was a coward then." Staring at Merlin, head held high, Arthur seemed to be daring him to disagree.

How had it come to this? "You…."

But Arthur interrupted him, gathering up his blood-splattered sword, jerking it toward Merlin. "They were scum. They deserve nothing but a sword plunged into their bellies and left to rot." He turned away, grabbing at a cloak, throwing it over his shoulders as he said, "If you can't see that, you are a fool." And with that, Arthur stomped out.

* * *

Afraid that Arthur had gone into the woods looking for prey or worse - some hapless victim to kill, Merlin ran after him. But luckily, he could see him just beyond the clearing, swinging a sword at one of the trees, shouting abuse at it. His Arthur had done the same thing at times, whenever his temper had got the better of him. So he could understand the need to release all that anger.

If only he could see other similarities.

He knew now that in his madness and grief, he had made a staggeringly bad error in judgement.

The reborn Arthur would never be anything like his king. There was no sense of compassion or even an attempt at understanding; all this Arthur had was a lust for blood and inflicting pain on others. He was also increasingly ignoring Merlin's advice about how to deal with everything from battle tactics to the history and cultures of Camelot's peoples, things a true king should know.

Arthur seemed more like the bandit, Hengist, malicious and vile, or like Morgana in the last days of her insanity than his king.

But he couldn't just chain Arthur up as if he were a mad dog, or worse yet - kill him. Even now, this Arthur had only killed in self-defence and Merlin had done similar thing in the service of his king, things that he was not proud of. Arthur had forgiven him in the end. Merlin could be no less honourable.

Knowing that there was little to be done until Arthur calmed down, he went to look at the bodies.

Trying to find out who they were, trying to see what threat they might bring even now, he searched for some kind of identifying marks. Other than a few badly chipped swords, an axe, a mace and several long knives, there wasn't much there. The men each had a few coins and badly-tanned furs, and there was that necklace of teeth that Merlin left alone. There were no badges of fealty or any indication that they might be part of a larger force and that gave Merlin some relief. If they'd been just thugs looking for trouble, they were unlikely to have others come looking for them.

The horses were another issue, though. He had nothing to feed them and forage was scarce. He hated the thought of having to kill them, but bringing them to the nearest village and trying to sell them would only raise questions. They were valuable, even as poorly fed as these appeared to be.

But he didn't need to make a decision just then. He could give it a day or two. Better to let the emotions of the day settle first.

He had to dispose of the bodies, though. Slowly dragging what was left of them into a single pile, putting aside bits and pieces of clothing that weren't too soiled, as well as a couple of pairs of boots that looked like they might fit them once thoroughly cleaned, he covered the bodies with wood and brush, then set it on fire with magic. The smell drove him back; the stench of meat cooking and unwashed bodies combined with the memory of Arthur's face as he killed them appalled him.

Bowing his head, he wished that he had his old life back; living in constant fear of discovery was nothing to what he had now and he'd have given almost anything to turn back time and start over.

But it was not to be.

He didn't know how long he stood there, but after a while, he felt, rather than heard, Arthur come and stand next to him.

"You keep telling me about honour and duty and when I kill the brutes threatening you, you act as if I'd done something wrong. They deserved it, Merlin, and you know your precious Arthur would have done the same." His voice hardened. "Camelot needs her king. It's time we gave them one. I will be that king, with or without your help." And with that, he turned and walked away.

* * *

They didn't talk much after that. Arthur spent most of his time brooding in the corner, sharpening his sword. The sound of stone against steel would have ordinarily been a welcome one; his king was always taking care of his weapons, or rather watching Merlin take care of them. It had become routine and Merlin missed that. But the noise this time was more accusation than comfort.

Finally, as Arthur was getting ready for bed, he said, "Are you with me or against me?"

Merlin let out a long, slow breath. "I am always servant to my king, Arthur, even now." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't exactly the truth either. This Arthur would never be his king; that honour lay waiting in the Lake of Avalon.

But Arthur took it as it sounded, acknowledgement of his destiny. "Good. We can plan what to do next in the morning. I assume you will be drinking yourself into a stupor as usual."

Merlin had had no idea of how Arthur felt about his drinking, but it was clear from the tone of his voice that he looked at it as a weakness. "That is not your concern."

"When I am king, it will be." Flat, unyielding, hard as stone. "When I am king, many things will change."

He didn't want to argue. Instead he nodded. "Of course. When you are king."

At that, Arthur frowned, but when Merlin said nothing else, he turned away and was soon asleep.

Merlin knew he had little time to figure out what to do about him. Killing him was not an option. He thought perhaps the book on necromancy might have some answers. He'd looked through it several times, trying to find out if Arthur's behaviour was normal for someone raised from the dead, but there had been no comfort in what he'd read. Still, it was worth one more look.

As Arthur softly snored, Merlin lit a candle and started studying the texts. One page after another and no new answers there. But, as he turned the last page, it felt odd, a little thicker than the others. Running a nail against the edge, looking at it closely, he could see that it was actually two pages stuck together. Carefully, working the parchment as quietly as he could so as not to wake Arthur, he finally pried the pages apart.

What he found shocked him.

Arthur, his Arthur, had been telling the truth all along. He was trapped inside the body Merlin raised from the Pool of Nemhain.

The warnings were very clear. Unable to do more than call out in dreams, only the most gifted in magic would even be able to hear those ensnared within. But the spirits of the dead would be able to see and hear everything; they would feel everything, too, and yet be unable to do anything to stop it.

No wonder raising the dead was forbidden.

Lancelot must have been trapped as well. Merlin had assumed that when he gave him that final blessing, releasing him from torment that day at Avalon's lake, he had been stuck in the Dorocha's realm all along. He thought Lance thanked him for freeing him from their grip, not freeing him from Morgana's entrapment. Merlin hadn't known. He'd failed Lancelot then just as he was failing Arthur now.

At least he knew the truth. The real Arthur was inside the other man, and if he was, there had to be a way of releasing him.

But as he read further, that hope died. According to the book, there was no magic that could reach into the bodies and overlay what had been pulled from the netherworld. The only way to release those trapped was to kill the hosts.

He couldn't, he couldn't do it. That would mean he'd see Arthur die again and it would be his fault again. He couldn't.

Shaken, the very idea left his scrambling for his magic book. Surely in the margins with its almost invisible text, there had to be a way. But in reading and rereading the fine print, he could find nothing there, not even the smallest of hopes.

He refused to give up, though. There had to be more information somewhere, something, anything that could give him the tools to release Arthur's spirit and bring back his friend, living and whole. They had a destiny still unfulfilled and Merlin would be damned if he let this chance slip by.

In the days before Arthur's death, Merlin would have had a wealth of knowledge hidden away among the books Gaius accumulated. Gaius, too, had known more than Merlin could ever hope to match. Those days were gone, the books destroyed, Gaius dead. And yet there was another room, deep in the library, now unknown to all but Merlin. He and Gaius had only begun to catalogue the artefacts and manuscripts when everything went to hell; surely there was an answer there somewhere hidden among them.

Ordinarily, going back to Camelot would be a problem. He was too well-known but none of those still living there had ever seen him disguised as Dolma. A batty old woman would surely be ignored, even patronized, and he should be able to move freely. He might need days to search, but with luck, he'd find the answer quickly.

More of an issue was Arthur reborn. He couldn't leave him alone. There was no telling what he might do if Merlin weren't there to restrain him. However, if Merlin told him that he was going to Camelot to pave the way for Arthur's return, it might work.

Now he just needed to tell his best friend that he finally understood and that he'd do everything he could to bring him back.

* * *

Of course sleep did not come easily. Wanting to speak with his Arthur again, he didn't drink himself into his usual stupor and his body wasn't used to it after all this time. So he tossed and turned until well into the night. When at last he sunk into unconsciousness, the nightmares started anew.

Camlann, of course, the place he would always dread. Bodies thick with flies, fires burning high in the distance, the colour of Pendragon red splashed across the hard earth, the sky full of smoke and despair. There was the sound of crows and last breaths and pain.

There was no sign of Arthur.

He thought that he'd be able to find him easily. After all, Arthur had been badgering him for several nights after he'd raised the other Arthur from the dead, but this time, there was nothing, no call for help, no demand for release. He began to panic. After all, Arthur wouldn't just ignore him. It would be more likely that he'd be aggressive, hit Merlin, or yell at him for leaving him alone so long or call him an idiot.

Merlin began shouting for him as he looked among the dead, but there was nothing in Camlann, nothing of Arthur. Then as his dreamscape melted into the misty shores of Avalon, Merlin found him at last: alone, silent, brooding.

"Arthur?" He wanted to shake him for letting him think something had gone so horribly wrong that he'd not answer; he wanted to hug him for just being there.

When he turned, Arthur looked furious. _So you came back._

Merlin stared at him, confused at his reaction. He would have thought Arthur would welcome him with open arms. "Yes, as soon as I could. I'm sorry. I should have believed you."

_You left me here. Trapped. Unable to do anything about it. Trapped inside a monster that likes to kill and you left me here thinking you weren't coming back_. Fists clenched, face white with anger, the scowl Arthur sent him could have melted rock. _I waited for you for days. You didn't come back. You left me._

Every word seemed to break Merlin's heart a little more. If only he'd found out sooner, if only he'd known that Arthur had been waiting for him. "I know. I'm sorry. I thought I was going crazy and you were just an illusion to torment me. I didn't know it was really you. I'm sorry." Sounding more certain than he truly was, Merlin said, "I'm going to find a way to free you."

_Don't leave me again._ Arthur still sounded furious, but at least he wasn't glaring at him anymore. _Do you know how much I want to thrash you right now? Sending you to the stocks for a month wouldn't be punishment enough for this. _

"I thought my mind was playing tricks. I didn't know it was really you." In a way, Merlin wished that Arthur would hit him. It was nothing that he didn't deserve after all.

_I should have you flogged. My father would have. You are an idiot. _

And with that, Merlin knew that he was forgiven. "Yes, I know. I've been such a fool. If I could have traded my place for yours, I would have. You must know that." When Arthur just gave him the look Gaius had once perfected, he felt miles better, although what he had to tell him wasn't good. "Arthur, my books say that I can't free you without killing him. But if I do, you will die, too. I can't let that happen."

_Merlin, he's been killing my people all along. He hunts them in the night. _Reaching out, he put one hand on Merlin's shoulder. Not just mist or the ghostly cold touch of the dead, it was solid, warm and wonderful and so very Arthur that Merlin was blinking back tears. _I have a duty to protect them, and if it means my death, then I accept that. You should, too._

He'd never accept it, never. Horrified, remembering the black despair he felt in the months since Camlann, Merlin said, "No, I won't. I can't."

_He hunts people for the pleasure of it and he thinks being king will make it easier. Merlin, he'll kill anyone in his way, including you._ Arthur gave Merlin a little shake, then let go and stood back. He looked every inch a king. _My life is nothing if I stand by and let him do that, to you or to the people of Camelot._

"Your life is worth a hundred of mine. I won't let you die for me or anyone else." Merlin couldn't go through that again. To lose Arthur a second time was just not possible, not if he had anything to say about it. They had come too far to give up now. There had to be a way.

_That is my choice, Merlin. I want you to promise me that if he kills again, stop him by any means, even if you have to kill him to do it. Promise _me.

The damn clotpole, the stupid self-sacrificing, honourable, beloved, royal idiot. Didn't Arthur understand how much he meant to him? He'd sacrificed everything for him: life, friends, his very soul. Now he was asking for too much. Too much.

"I…."

Arthur must have read something in his eyes. Folding his arms across his chest, standing there immovable and as determined as Merlin had ever seen him, Arthur said, _Promise me, Merlin._

"I… I will. But if I do, I swear that I will find a way to bring you back. There are other books in Camelot and I'm sure with the right spells…."

There had to be a way, there just had to. If he could persuade Arthur to hang on just a little longer, or if nothing else, Merlin could raise him again and this time do it right or the next time or the next. He'd find a way.

Arthur turned pale as any ghost. He had never shown fear, not even when he lay dying in Merlin's arms, only acceptance. But now, horror was there, and a look of pain in his eyes and the set of his mouth.

_No, not with necromancy. Not again. I won't allow it. It is torture to be trapped like this. I won't go through it again. If I mean anything to you at all, you won't._

If Merlin agreed, it would tear him to pieces, break him until there was nothing left but endless grief. Madness and the bleak hole of the Crystal Cave would be his eternity and he couldn't do it, he couldn't. But looking at Arthur, he knew he was just being selfish and that was worse than his own pain. He could never really deny Arthur anything, not even this. Dread crawling into his chest, reluctance in the beat of his heart, and with growing sorrow, he nodded slowly.

Arthur let out a long, relieved sigh. _One more thing. If things don't go well, if I must die to stop him, I want you to stop blaming yourself. Turn your talents toward rebuilding Camelot. Find Guinevere and help her. She's a good person and I think Camelot would do well under her rule. Help her in any way you can._

Helping Gwen was the least of his worries. "That I can promise you. But the others… Arthur, I don't know if I'll have the strength. If it means killing you, I don't know…."

Arthur reached out, flung an arm around his shoulder and pulled Merlin to him. _I think you have more strength than you realize._ Merlin twisted deeper into his embrace, hugging the man who meant everything to him. He buried his face against Arthur's shoulder and tried not to think of what tomorrow would bring.

_If I am your friend as much as you are mine, promise to let me go._

Merlin could only nod and try not to weep.


	5. Chapter 5

Merlin was exhausted when he woke. He didn't want to face what tasks might lay ahead. It could mean Arthur's death if Merlin didn't restrain the reborn Arthur somehow, and he doubted if he'd be able to. Unlike his Arthur, he was overly confident and utterly without compassion, but he could fight and he liked to kill. A powerful combination. If it came down to it, Merlin would likely have to kill him, something he desperately did not want to do.

On the other hand, if he could find a way to restrain him, it would give Merlin some time to find a way out of the disaster he'd created.

But when he glanced toward the other cot, it was empty. Arthur was gone.

Dressing as quickly as he could, cursing the whole time, Merlin could see that Arthur had taken his best sword and a leather vest studded with metal. The chainmail and armour had been left behind, and ordinarily Merlin would have thought nothing of it. After all, if Arthur wasn't going to fight, he'd not need it.

Yet something Arthur had said sounded warning bells in his head, that the reborn Arthur liked to hunt at night. Merlin had all but ignored it in the bleak aspect of losing his Arthur for good. But if he were hunting, he'd leave behind something as noisy as chainmail. A vest made of boiled leather was almost as good and it wouldn't make any sounds and that would mean… Arthur was on the hunt again. He was going to kill again.

Merlin was too late.

Shoving boots on, he hurried outside. One of the two horses they'd seized from the bandits was gone. Another sharp curse and Merlin was already trying to put the saddle on the second horse but it took precious seconds and panic was making him clumsy. It didn't help that the horse could sense his fear, and that made him skittish, jerking away from Merlin as he tried over and over again to mount him.

Finally, knowing that he had to hurry, that it might already be too late, he whispered a spell to calm the horse, then jumped on and began to follow the trail Arthur had left behind.

Apparently he was headed toward Willowdale.

The sun was coming up when he finally caught up with Arthur… and the mob closing in on him.

It was clear that the villagers had planned it. A net, half-destroyed, lay on the ground, and the crowd surrounding Arthur were armed with pitchforks and long knives. One was brandishing a crossbow, and Arthur's leg had a bolt sticking out of it. Another wound, bright with blood, was gaping in his gut; he must have broken off the feathered shaft to fight.

Merlin didn't think the villagers were stupid enough to attack Arthur at close range. They must have known that he was good with a sword, and even now, wounded, he was magnificent in the way he was keeping his enemies at bay.

But it wasn't a battle or some glorious quest, just villagers trying to get in a strike, to take him down.

As Merlin rode closer, he could hear the shouting. Accusations of murder, one woman shrieking at Arthur about her son and how he'd killed him, another man shoving his pitchfork into the air and howling for revenge. On the edge of the mob, several others were holding themselves as if in pain and Merlin could see red there, still seeping. Arthur must have wounded some, either before the others arrived or after they surrounded him. There were groans of agony and screaming for blood; it was focused chaos.

It was then Merlin realized that they hadn't meant to capture Arthur. It was an execution. The villagers must have set a trap for Arthur, and when he fell for it, they moved in for the kill.

Merlin couldn't let that happen.

Riding hell-bent for the centre of the mob, Merlin shouted, "_Forþ __flíehe__n._" Several of the villagers went flying backwards, giving Arthur enough room to make a run for it. But instead, looking at Merlin for an instant and nodding as if pleased, he turned toward the crowd and began slashing his way through them.

It was Merlin's worst nightmare.

There were screams and everyone trying to escape, Arthur laughing as he began to attack the villagers. Horrified, for a heartbeat, Merlin watched, stunned at the ferocity of it all. Then he remembered his promise.

_"__Ic hér ácíege ænne windræs! Færblæd wæw!__ Hira __síena, t__óswierc__. Ecg, __cume hér__."_

And with that, there was a howl of wind, rising up and even Arthur, still trying to kill anyone he could reach, bowed his head against it. His sword went flying into Merlin's hand, and for a moment, he was defenceless. When Arthur looked up and saw Merlin holding it, he sent him such a look of hatred that it felt as if a dagger had plunged into Merlin's heart.

Then, realizing he was vulnerable, Arthur ran toward Merlin, shouting at him to give him back his sword, that he had to kill them all before it was too late. In that instant, Merlin thought he looked more like Uther in his madness than any likeness of Arthur.

The man with the crossbow was aiming again. Merlin flung out his hand and the bow flew into the air, the bolt going wide. Howling in rage, the villager was racing toward them both, pulling out a long knife as he did. Arthur didn't see him, so intent was he on reaching Merlin and wresting the sword from him. But Merlin pushed out his magic again and the villager fell backwards, out of harm's way.

In all the chaos, the mob began to regroup, surging toward them both. Merlin, realizing that there was very little time before they were both overwhelmed, galloped to Arthur, yanking him up behind him. It didn't help that he was fighting Merlin all the time, grabbing at the sword, punching Merlin in the back and along the side of his head to make him let go.

When Arthur hit him again, a solid blow against his temple, agony exploded in Merlin's skull. For an instant, everything greyed out. Arthur was shouting at him, the noise wavering as he tried to hold onto consciousness. His vision blurred. There was a sound of another crossbow bolt whizzing past and another and then Arthur jerked upright and his grip loosened. As Merlin's horse surged forward, Arthur slid off, hitting the ground hard and then lay still.

Merlin pulled the horse up sharply, jumped off toward where Arthur lay. In his chest, a crossbow head was clearly seen. It had gone into his back and when he fell, it pushed right through. There was blood everywhere. Pendragon red.

Kneeling down, still faint from Arthur's blows, trying to clear his head so that he could use his magic to heal him, Merlin babbled, "Don't die. Don't die. I have to save you. I have to…."

"Should have killed you…." There was a whimper of sound, bright colour bubbling out of his mouth, then Arthur frowned, looking almost puzzled. "I've been trained to kill since birth, you know."

Grasping at Merlin's arm, squeezing tightly, gazing up at him with mad blue eyes, he gave out one final grunt of pain. And then his face slackened, his hand let go and he slumped backwards and lay still.

Arthur, reborn out of love and loss, was dead.

"I know," As he closed Arthur's eyes, Merlin choked out. "I know."

* * *

Merlin was numb. He'd failed again; his choices had led him to Arthur's death. Again.

Body sprawled in the dirt, blood slowly congealing, Arthur looked almost peaceful. Merlin pushed down the matted hair, straightened the tunic collar, tried to adjust the leather vest, tugged at it, tugged hard, but it wouldn't budge. It was only after a few moments that he realized the crossbow bolt in Arthur's chest was stuck fast to it.

He let out a long, frantic wail, then jerked out the shafts one at a time, his magic exploding them into dust. He smoothed over the wounds with gentle fingers until all he could see was the brown blood soaking through and Arthur lying there. Too late, too late.

Behind him, the villagers were raging. They probably thought him an accomplice in Arthur's killing spree, and although he could have explained, he was just too heartsick to care. As he adjusted and smoothed and let grief take him, he ignored their fury, laying fire across their paths to keep them from taking Arthur away.

After a while, they must have seen that they could do nothing against him and stopped trying. In one corner of his mind, Merlin knew that they were gathering up their own wounded and dead. They weren't foolish enough to ignore him, though. They left guards just in case he decided to take revenge - not that anyone could have stopped him. But it saddened him to see it, saddened him that his despair and longing for Arthur's return had led to the murder of innocents.

Gathering up the body, he put Arthur across the horse's saddle, then slowly walked back to his hut. If the villagers followed, he didn't notice. He was too numb with his own grief to care.

It took time but Merlin was gentle, washing down Arthur's body, sewing up his wounds, dressing him in the finery he deserved: chainmail and armour and the Pendragon-red cloak. Clothes fit for a king.

But when he got to Avalon's lake, he couldn't. He knew he'd have to release his Arthur and let him go; he knew Arthur was still trapped inside, probably furious with Merlin for taking so long, but it was all he could do to lift the body off the horse and lay it down next to the shore. His hands were trembling and he wasn't ready to let go, not yet, not yet.

Slipping a bit in the mud and ice, as he sat down next to him, he pulled Arthur's limp body into his arms. The red cloak was spread around him, floating a little at the lake's edge. Around them was snow and rock and water - cold and more cold, as lifeless as the corpse in his arms.

Watching Arthur's slack face, feeling the weight of him against his chest, knowing that he would soon be gone and Merlin would be alone, he couldn't hold in his grief. He hadn't been able to save him and it was his mistakes that cost Arthur his life – again.

He couldn't stand it. He wanted to tear the world apart or if not, sink down into the ice and become as cold and lifeless as Arthur was. That, if he sat there long enough, the frozen air would deaden his mind as well as his body. But it didn't. It only reminded him of his true punishment, that he was the one left behind.

Tears started unbidden, frosting his face with cold reminders of failure, and he curled inward, cradling Arthur to him. Rocking, rocking, the grief destroying him, his heart shattering under the weight of his loss and the pieces cutting through him like glass. He felt as if he were bleeding inside, that the sword Mordred had wielded at Camlann left shards in him, too. He knew it wasn't real. But the pain was real enough, tearing him, shredding at his throat as he howled out his fury into the uncaring air.

But grief did not bring back the dead.

Hours later, days perhaps, eons filled with frenzy and madness and utter despair, finally, finally he gathered up what little courage he had left and said, "_Grið fæstne mid þisse tintregende __sáwol._"

There was a gasp of breath and Arthur, his Arthur, his beloved king opened his eyes. "Thank you, Merlin."

"Don't leave me. Please, Arthur, don't..." Merlin hugged him closer, hoping to keep him there just a little longer, touching his face, his hair, the cold skin at his neck and wishing that this was the beginning and not the end, never the end. "Don't leave me."

He wanted to rage; he wanted to scream and argue and laugh and tell him jokes and have Arthur throw things at him and call him idiot; he wanted to pull lightning from the air and shatter the world if it would keep Arthur from leaving him.

What use was magic if he couldn't keep alive the only person he'd ever wanted?

"Such a girl." Arthur reached up to cup Merlin's face a moment, brushing a thumb across the tracks of grief on his cheek. Then his voice growing weak, Arthur said, "Remember. No man is worth your tears."

Merlin let out a bitter laugh. "You are, you damn prat. You are and don't you forget it." Hysteria rising in his throat, he pressed his forehead to Arthur's, one hand cupping the back of his head, trying to close the distance between them, trying to make the final few moments last an eternity. "Please, Arthur, don't go. I can still bring you back again. If I try hard enough, I'm sure I can find a way. Please, let me try, please don't leave me alone."

Arthur pulled back, stared up into Merlin's face. There was horror in Arthur's eyes as he said, "No, you promised you wouldn't. If you care about me at all, don't. Not that way."

Merlin had never seen him so unnerved, even when they faced the Dorocha, even when they faced monster after monster, armies and demons and destruction. Arthur had faced them all with determination, knowing that he could die at any moment. But this, this more than anything, was something so terrible that even Arthur ran from it.

Merlin couldn't force that on someone he loved.

"I won't, I give you my word." Merlin's throat was tightening again, as he tried to hold back his grief. "Besides, the dragon said you'd be back. The Once and Future King, he said. In Albion's greatest time of need. Promise me. You'll come back… please, Arthur."

"Talking to… dragons? Really, Merlin?" Arthur said. Merlin could see the struggle in his eyes and the way Arthur's body was stiffening. Time was growing shorter, every second precious.

"He said we had a destiny, you and I." Merlin sent him a nervous half-smile as he smoothed down Arthur's hair, brushed across his cheek, and tried to ignore the increasing coldness of Arthur's skin. When Arthur didn't mock him, just lay there watched Merlin growing more and more frantic, he knew there were only moments left. Desperate, Merlin said, "Promise me you'll come back. Promise."

"Merlin… I don't…." Arthur was frowning, looking at him with concern as if it were Merlin who was dying and not his prat prince.

He didn't want to shout, but the foolish idiot was being too noble, and there was no time. He couldn't let him go, not like this. His hand framed Arthur's cheek, white fingers stark against the icy skin, as Merlin said sharply, "Promise me, damn it!"

Lifting his hand, shaking and clearly weakening fast, Arthur covered Merlin's fingers with his own. Merlin could feel the shape and weight of him and the idea that this might be the last time Arthur ever touched him like this, destroyed Merlin all over again. He couldn't breathe for the despair of it.

Merlin was fighting back tears as he heard Arthur say, "If…it's possible, I'll find a… way."

That wasn't good enough. Merlin needed more than just platitudes and reassurances. He needed Arthur's vow; he needed to know that Arthur would come back to him, no matter what. Rocking back, taking Arthur's hand and pressing it against Merlin's heart, he begged, "Give me your word!"

Something must have got through to Arthur, Merlin's desperation or his loneliness or the bleak future that they both knew was ahead. Arthur pushed his fingers harder into Merlin's chest, pushed again and then all his strength seemed to disappear. Arthur sagged back, his hand held there only by Merlin's determination as he whispered, "I… promise."

"I'll wait for you." Merlin meant it. This was the man he'd give his life for a thousand times over, his best friend, the man he loved with all his heart, and if it meant waiting forever to be with him again, then that's what he would do. But not yet, not yet.

"Merlin, I…." Arthur let out one last, long breath, and then he grew silent and still. And cold, so cold.

Arthur was gone.

As Merlin sat there, shattered, calling Arthur's name over and over again, shaking him as if it would somehow bring him back, knowing it was useless, the sky opened up. Rain poured down. Lightning, bright and terrible, ignited the trees around him; the flames were roaring like pyres and there was the sound of rain evaporating into steam and the crack of something exploding in the distance. The noise was echoing on and on and he knew that it was drowning out his cries but he could still feel the pain inside, pounding against his chest. He was soaked and shivering and it didn't matter what was happening around him - because Arthur wasn't in the world to share it with him.

Merlin didn't know how long he sat there, broken, but when he could see clearly again, the trees along the shore had turned to ash and there was the smell of damp smoke lingering in the air. Devastation encircled him like a cloak.

It didn't matter, though. Nothing had changed. Arthur was still dead, still a cold body in his arms.

There was only one last task, one last vow to keep.

He didn't remember finding the boat or bringing it back to where Arthur lay, cold and alone. In the distance, there was snow blowing and Avalon's hill was covered in white but all Merlin could see was his friend's still face and the Pendragon-red cloak covering him like a shroud.

Putting Arthur's body in the boat and setting it alight was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But he did it because he'd promised. Now there was nothing left but to wait for Arthur to return and know that this was Merlin's punishment, ever and eternal.

* * *

The madness came back, memories crawling into his chest and he was broken and he knew it. But he'd promised Arthur to help Gwen regain what Merlin had destroyed with his choices. And it was this promise that kept him from sinking into the earth and never coming out again. After all, he'd ignored Arthur's pleas for weeks and all it had done was destroy them both.

He found Gwen honoured at Queen Annis's court. At first, she refused to see him but she understood him in ways Arthur had not and when she saw how much he blamed himself for what happened, she listened to what he had to say. She never forgave him, of course, but at least she listened. In time, Camelot flowered again and Gwen reigned long and well. But Arthur had always been the heart of Camelot for Merlin and he saw the kingdom as nothing more than a hollow shell – much like himself.

For his service, Gwen brought back magic, and for a time it was enough. But when she died and his obligation to her died as well, he retreated back into his cave, waiting, waiting.

As the years passed, decades, centuries, the stories of King Arthur twisted and turned, morphing into a tangle of golden ages and heroics, becoming legends and then myths so warped that Merlin couldn't begin to recognize them, but it didn't matter. At least Arthur's name was remembered with honour.

Merlin kept his promise. He didn't try to bring Arthur back again. Eventually, he found a way that might have worked but it was fraught with risk and remembering Arthur's terror, knew that he couldn't put his best friend through that again. Besides, he'd promised and Arthur had promised, too, to come back.

So Merlin waited and watched and mourned, knowing that his best friend, his king, would return someday.

Because Arthur promised.

And Arthur always kept his word.

The end

Translations:

_Mid __þes __sceatte, ic __ðu áben, Arthur Pendragon. Cume fram begeondan __wítescræfe. Aríse und eftáríse, min cyning.= _With this tribute, I summon you, Arthur Pendragon. Come from beyond the pit of torment. Arise and live again, my king.

_Forþ __flíehe__n_= Fly back

_Ic hér ácíege ænne windræs! Færblæd wæw!__ Hira __síena, t__óswierc__. Ecg, __cume hér__. _ = I summon a storm-wind. Sudden blast, blow! Their vision, obscure. Sword, come here.

_Grið fæstne mid þisse tintregende __sáwol._ = Bestow peace with this tortured soul.


End file.
